


Every Man will Do his Duty

by resperella



Category: Star Wars Legends: Hand of Thrawn Duology - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resperella/pseuds/resperella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Thrawn dies, Pellaeon has to pick himself up and carry on. Just when he thinks he's got the hang of it, Flim shows up to throw a wrench in the gears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Man will Do his Duty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluehooloovo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehooloovo/gifts).



 

There’s a single bloodstain marring the cuff of his right sleeve, dull against the Imperial gray of his uniform. It doesn’t touch his skin. His hands are clasped behind his back, in a training-manual perfect parade rest, the stiff sleeve of his uniform just far enough from his wrist that he can’t feel the cloth. He resists the urge to pull his hand forward and look at it, but it keeps tugging away at the back of his mind.

On Thrawn’s chest, the blood had been bright red, seeping into the flawless white of his uniform. By the time Pellaeon had broken the first moment of panic and rushed up to the command chair, Thrawn’s eyes were already dull and flat, his heartbeat faint and growing fainter under Pellaeon’s palm. His mind catches on the wet, sticky feeling of blood soaking through cloth. Even through his uniform, Thrawn’s body heat had been noticeably higher than a human’s. He can’t recall ever having touched Thrawn before.

His hand twitches; he relaxes the fingers and pushes his shoulders down and back. Below him in the crew pit, there’s a flurry of beeps, the sound of a voice raised in urgency but not in panic, and a few hurried footsteps. The beeping stops, and the noise fades back into the background.

The normalcy is surreal. If he doesn’t look back at the deep red bloodstain on the command chair, the bridge of the _Chimaera_ is humming along as usual, waiting for him to collect his thoughts, gather the after-action reports from the Fleet captains, and make his way down to Thrawn to give his synopsis. Nothing is unusual, except that Thrawn is dead, and after he reads the reports, _he’ll_ be the one who has to act on them.

C’baoth’s voice echoes through his head, absurdly. _You fought on. Like cadets._

The reflexive anger shakes his mind loose, and to his surprise, he realizes that it isn’t true. Not this time. In the first panicked seconds, perhaps. He’d looked up from the bloodstain spreading between his fingers to see the entire bridge crew frozen in place, ignoring their monitors while a Rebel squadron hurtled towards the bridge and a proximity alarm wailed unattended.

But the Fleet regrouped and retreated in good order - and now, in the middle of their hyperspace jump, there’s none of the post-Endor panic and disorder. They had fought on like Imperials and professionals, a testament to a leader who inspired them, not with Jedi mind tricks or bizarre psychopathic rage, but with Imperial discipline and a relentless dedication to duty.

He hears footsteps approaching, just slightly out of rhythm. “Sir.” Lieutenant Ardiff.  “The fleet will come out of hyperspace in approximately 10 minutes.”

He sounds nervous, as if he’s afraid that Pellaeon will snap at him, or worse, have no plan at all. Pellaeon wonders briefly if he’d served under Teshik or any of the other captains who had broken down in the wake of the Emperor’s death, going off on irrational personal quests for vengeance or swinging wildly between extremes of hostility and despair. But he’s too young to have possibly fought at Endor, even if he’d lied about his age to join the Academy the way Pellaeon had. The thought makes him feel old, and suddenly too tired to pick everything up and carry on _again_.

“Very good.” His voice is perfectly calm. “All ships, holding pattern gamma, and signal the Star Destroyer captains for a conference at 0400 hours.”

“Yes, sir.” Ardiff spins on his heel and leaves. His footsteps are perfect. Pellaeon gives himself one more minute to stare blankly out the viewscreen, and then turns to go back to the bridge and collect the after-action reports from the rest of the Fleet.

**

Of course, Thrawn had left orders to be followed in the event of his death, including a plan for strategic retreat from Bilbringi if necessary.

 _In the immediate crisis,_ the plan begins, _Captain Pellaeon of the_ Chimaera _should give whatever orders he considers necessary_. With a few modifications, the outline of the retreat is manageable, and Pellaeon notes with a reflexive pang of frustration that the plan is much more forthcoming about Thrawn’s reasoning than the man had ever been in life.

The document concludes by placing Pellaeon officially in command of the Fleet. _He is an officer of great intelligence and admirable loyalty, and I trust his judgment completely._

He stares at the words in furious disbelief. Thrawn trusted his judgment, except, apparently when it came to finding bodyguards who didn’t have cause to assassinate him, or putting unhinged Jedi Masters in control of the Fleet, or -

The datapad makes a cracking sound and he belatedly realizes he’s slammed it down on the desk. He takes a breath and scrolls down to the next paragraph. Thrawn has apparently left independent records of his orders with the Council of Moffs and otherwise taken all possible steps to ensure that the post-Endor chaos won’t be repeated. For that, at least, he can be grateful.

He doesn’t scroll back up again, and tells himself that the reason is the urgency of communicating Thrawn’s orders to the fleet.

It’s not exactly a lie: even with Thrawn’s strategy to guide them, the crisis of the retreat engulfs them all in the rush of rear-guard maneuvering. The crew of the _Chimaera_ holds up with admirable discipline, and the other captains seem to follow reflexively in the shock of Thrawn’s death, adhering like so many burrs to any hint of normalcy and coherent leadership. Retreat and consolidation stretches out into days and weeks of gut-twisting anxiety -without Thrawn's particular genius to hold it all together, the Fleet's position is untenably overstretched - but at least it’s an area where action can accomplish something, where good decisions have tangible results.

Pellaeon is almost grateful for the total lack of time to think. If he falls into bed inadequately exhausted, or insufficiently worried about whatever new crisis looms on the horizon, the betrayal clenches in his chest. _You didn’t need some maniac Jedi to compel discipline. You had it; you had it even after you died. You had it from me; you had it from all of us._ Anger at the stubborn, wasteful blindness chokes him, and he clings to the anger in the half-realized fear that underneath it is something unnameable and even more unbearable.

At least the insomnia is helpful for plowing his way through the political maneuvering necessary to keep the Moffs on his side: apparently not even Thrawn’s orders were enough to forestall a renewed wave of power struggles. But that’s only to be expected, and it’s nothing insurmountable (if admittedly intensely frustrating).

Even after he starts sleeping again, he doesn’t dream the way he had after Endor, endless nightmares of Star Destroyers crashing into each other while their crews stood paralyzed on the bridges, or AT-ST walkers that frantically pushed on through the jungle without getting anywhere. He’d never had dreams like that before and he hasn’t had any since: perhaps there really had been something to the theory about the Emperor controlling the Fleet with the Force. The nightmares could have simply been some strange psychic aftereffect of the sudden break in control. 

Six months later, Pellaeon belatedly realizes that he’s stopped reflexively looking over to Thrawn for approval and mentally flagging items to bring to Thrawn’s attention. He's subsumed back into the life of the Fleet and the same dedication to the Empire that had drawn him to Thrawn in the first place. Apparently, whatever Thrawn had been to him personally, he’s moved on.

**

But ten years later, a mask falls at Bastion, and a con man called Flim stands where a Grand Admiral had been a moment before. He’d known the truth before he’d ever walked onto the bridge; he’d never been looking at Thrawn at all, but Pellaeon hadn’t realized exactly how much he had hoped. 

There’s no battle to distract him this time, and no breathing-space to let his thoughts settle, only the brief walk to the communications blister and a few seconds of silent static while the connection goes through. And he can't even lean on the Fleet now, because when the static clears, he's looking at Garm Bel Iblis, preparing to take responsibility for surrendering the Empire that Thrawn had trusted him to lead.  

“General Bel Iblis,” he says evenly. “I’ve called to discuss the terms of the Empire’s surrender.”

He’d been mentally preparing himself for gloating, but Bel Iblis looks more confused than anything else. “Then Grand Admiral Thrawn has not returned.”

“No.” Somehow, that’s even harder to say than the request for peace. “The rumors were the result of a well-orchestrated fraud.”

“I’ll be very interested to hear about it.” Bel Iblis looks over his shoulder and gestures impatiently at someone off the screen. “May I invite you and any staff you deem necessary aboard the _Peregrine_ tomorrow for negotiations?”

“Very good.”

They arrange a stand-down until then and put their respective staffs in communication to organize orbit patterns and search-and-rescue teams for pilots who went EV. It all feels almost routine, except for the looming reality that the Empire is only managing its own fleet because Garm Bel Iblis knows how to be generous in victory and isn’t interested in further humiliating a defeated opponent. The connection winks out, and he’s left alone feeling suddenly unequal to the task of standing back up and resuming the facade of command. His uniform drags on his shoulders; there’s no mental refuge in service to a Fleet that exists only on the sufferance of its victorious enemies.

This is what’s best for the Empire. He will not throw away any more lives in a war they no longer have a chance of winning. Even Thrawn might not be able to pull a victory out of their shrunken resources, and Thrawn isn’t here. Spinning around in circles of self-doubt and hindsight is useless at this point; worse than useless, because it's a distraction from the job he still has to do. But he's intensely grateful to see Ardiff approaching with steady, sure footsteps and his usual air of slightly-overworked competence, because this time he's not sure he could support anyone else. 

**

Perhaps it’s not strictly strategically necessary, but Pellaeon refuses to send Flim off to rot in some out-of-the-way holding facility until he has a chance to speak with him. He reads the official report first: notably unlike Disra, Flim had been perfectly pleasant and even willing to talk. Of course, everything he says is completely suspect, but where Imperial Intelligence has been able to confirm parts of his story, it seems that he’s telling the truth.

He doesn’t actually make it down to Detention until the fourth day after the confrontation on the bridge. Out of his blue makeup and red eye inserts, Flim looks scruffy and almost gaunt. His real hair is silver, whether from age or whether it’s a species trait, Pellaeon can’t quite tell. From some angles, he looks completely human; from others, there’s something just a little off. But perhaps it’s just the scars of a life spent on the Fringe.

Flim’s relaxed in his chair, even with his hands in binders on the table. He looks like the kind of man who’s comfortable with the binders, with none of the aristocratic reservation that Thrawn would have displayed. When he notices Pellaeon watching him, Flim smiles just slightly, and sits up in one smooth motion, his shoulders drawing back and his face rearranging until there’s an Imperial officer sitting in the chair, one who could be Thrawn, if his skin and his eyes were the right color.

It yanks at something inside his chest, a lingering visceral grief for what the Empire had lost with Thrawn, the wound rubbed raw from a day of negotiations over how much of the Fleet the Empire will be _allowed_ to keep. His face doesn’t change. “As you were.” As soon as he hears his own voice, he realizes how ridiculous it is - he's not talking to a subordinate officer - but Flim relaxes back into the chair anyway.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

Pellaeon takes a seat. “Total political upheaval tends to keep one busy.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Flim says. “For whatever it’s worth, and I’m sure coming from me it’s not worth much, I think you’re doing the right thing.”

“Thank you. But I’m not here to discuss my own political machinations.” Quite frankly, he’d rather discuss almost anything else for an hour. “I seem to recall promising to hear your tale of woe. Your report claims you got involved with Disra of your own free will. Why?”

He asks expecting an answer about poverty and desperation, or possibly blackmail and the fear of retaliation against some kind of family or tribe that Disra had dug up and threatened. The vast majority of the petty criminals he’d ever encountered had been driven by one of the two, often both.

But the answer he gets is neither. “This is my art. It was a professional challenge.”

“A _professional_ challenge,” Pellaeon repeats skeptically. The man hasn’t made any bones about being a child of the criminal Fringe - if they can believe his account of his own life history, he has no idea who his parents are or even how old he is beyond an estimation to the nearest decade.

“Yes,” Flim insists. “Professional. It takes skill to lie that effectively, to that many people. I trained for years.” He meets Pellaeon’s eyes squarely, with the same calm assurance as one of the _Chimaera’s_ technical specialists explaining some particular aspect of a transport ship or a turbolaser. Apparently, his professional pride hasn’t been damaged by four days in Imperial detention. Flim waits for Pellaeon to tip his chin in acknowledgement before he continues. “And this particular job was exciting. Not just the political scope of it, but the man himself; I only ever saw holos, but he had such a...presence, somehow. I had to try it.” He smiles. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“Yes.” He thinks of the way Thrawn could command attention with a glance, his ability to make following orders feel like an honor. Flim hadn’t quite captured it, but he’d come impressively close.

Flim interrupts his memories. “Disra threatened to kill me if I didn’t take the job, but he didn’t need to.”

Disra’s records had notes about the three previous candidates who refused. Their bodies are currently floating somewhere in space, probably never to be found. Pellaeon isn't sure whether Flim knows about them, but judging from his tone, he wouldn’t be surprised. But the story still doesn’t quite make sense. “For a man on such an exciting professional challenge, you seemed very relieved when it was over.”

Flim smiles bitterly. “It was exciting at first. And the actual acting was always fun, even at the very end. But.” He pauses. “I might be from the Fringe, but Tierce and Disra were scum. I’m sure you know the whole sordid story, probably better than I do, but the bickering and the infighting and the power-grabbing...even Hutt syndicates can work together better than that, and I know that from firsthand experience.”

If Flim weren’t his prisoner, Pellaeon would invite the man out for a commiserative drink, but as it is, he pulls the formality of the Imperial officer around him and straightens his shoulders. “Would you have stayed, if you hadn’t been found out?”

“I’m a professional,” Flim repeats. “I would have stayed until the job was done. Or until Tierce throttled me across his own desk, whichever came first.”

It’s possible, even likely, that the man is lying through his teeth. It’s not exactly an enormous leap of logic to guess that Pellaeon would respond to a story about professional honor, and a con man of Flim’s caliber is certainly skillful enough pull off the facade. Fringe scum or _professional_ Fringe scum, his skill was never in question. But even if it is a complete fabrication, all the best lies rely on understanding and  exploiting something about the target - Thrawn had taught him that much. And Pellaeon doesn't need to go hunting down an exhibit of Corellian artwork to figure out what it is. 

Flim is watching him think. “I’m well aware that you can’t just let me go,” he says finally.

He’s right, of course. Pellaeon can’t base command decisions on fatigue and loneliness, much less on the almost instinctive draw towards any way to feel less unmoored in the face of Imperial defeat. But whether Flim is lying or not, he’s just reminded Pellaeon of a way to anchor himself, even with Thrawn dead and the Fleet walking a precarious knife edge between humiliation and complete disbandment. Flim is not the only professional in the room with his own resources to fall back on and commitments to honor even in the face of failure and defeat. Pellaeon did it to sue for peace in the first place; he can do it again to carry it through. 

He takes a deep breath. _I trust his judgment completely._

“Thank you for being so forthcoming,” he says, “it’s been very enlightening.”

**

When he steps out of the cell, the set of his shoulders feels less artificial than it has in the past week. The guard stands to attention. “Sir. Shall I have the prisoner put on the transfer list for a long-term facility?”

“Not yet.” He has a call to make to Talon Karrde first.

  



End file.
